


we won’t get too sentimental (not tonight)

by pirateygoodness



Series: this can’t last forever (kiss me one more time) [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Feelings Are For Chumps, Fingerfucking, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 17:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10836297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirateygoodness/pseuds/pirateygoodness
Summary: Amaya has spent years tempering instinct with logic and rules. She knows the value of strategy, knows the value of patience and evidence-gathering in the face of emotion. The evidence available is this: she knows that she died. She knows that Sara risked everything - far more than she should have - to prevent it. She knows that Sara’s standing in her bunk right now, trying desperately not to look at her.(Canon divergent from somewhere near the end of 2.17, "Aruba")





	we won’t get too sentimental (not tonight)

After everything that’s happened, Sara uses the Spear. Amaya watches as she holds the power to shape worlds, to rewrite existence. In the end, Sara uses it exactly as she should. It seems almost anticlimactic. 

They put the Legion in the brig. There’s a finality to it, this time, a sense from everyone that they’ve _won._ Sara organizes the team into shifts to start getting some rest. It’s good advice - some of them haven’t slept for at least 24 hours, and the boys smell _terrible_. As soon as Sara gives her permission to rest, Amaya’s body starts to remind her that she hasn’t eaten in ages. 

(She doesn’t know if her body will ever fully adjust to life on a time ship, without the sun to guide the rhythm of her days.)

Amaya’s given first shift, with Ray and Nathaniel, while the rest of the boys start working on repairs to the ship. Sara leaves herself notably absent from either of the rotations, but Amaya doesn’t push it. She’s too tired for that. Instead, she heads to her quarters and allows herself the luxury of a long shower, lingers until her shoulders are numb from the steady beat of the water. On the Waverider, doing things slowly is a luxury in its own right, and Amaya plans to take full advantage of the opportunity. Once she’s finished, body and hair clean, dressed in fresh clothing that hasn’t seen the inside of a trench, she wanders down to the kitchen. 

Her pace is leisurely - lazy - and when she gets there, she’s delighted to discover that the boys have already started cooking enough food to feed at least twenty. There’s pasta and tomato sauce warm on the stove, and when she breathes in, she’s hit with the sharp scent of fresh basil that means Ray’s starting another batch of his homemade pesto. The smell of it all feels a little like home. 

Amaya sets herself to work helping Ray finish his pesto. With two, they can make short work of the mountain of herbs he’s set aside. “Hey, you,” he says, making a show of bumping his hip sideways to jostle her, and she can’t help but laugh. 

Nate is across the kitchen, organizing dishes. Jefferson and Mick aren’t technically off shift, but the whole crew is hungry and they’re hovering, hoping for a quick meal before they get back to work. She glances away, focuses on her knife and the crush of leaves underneath the blade. She can feel Nathaniel’s gaze on her, lingering a bit longer than she’d like, and doesn’t want to encourage it. _Casual_ means something in 1942, and it’s becoming clear that it means something very different to someone from 2017. Something Amaya’s not sure she wants. 

They eat dinner together, Amaya making a point of sitting next to Jefferson and Mick, distancing herself from Nate as much as she can. They’re all ravenous, and they eat with the singular focus that comes after a battle; too hungry and exhausted to stop eating long enough for small talk. 

Amaya appreciates the silence. 

She finishes her meal in record time, does her part to help with the cleanup. The rest of the team are starting to get their energy back, fuelled by the meal and the leftover adrenaline, making plan after plan for things to do: a movie night, a game of something called _Catan_ , video games. Amaya’s not in the mood to join them. 

She pads back down the hallway to her bunk, once again allowing herself the luxury of time. She changes as if to go to sleep, braids her still-damp hair to give herself some hope of being able to manage it in the morning, and lies in bed. She doesn’t sleep. She’s not as wired as the boys, but she’s definitely still got excess energy to burn. Excess energy and a lot of thoughts that she can’t seem to ignore: everything that happened, the time loop, the Spear. Seeing two Saras, two Nates, the way they each looked at her, stricken. As if they’d seen a ghost. 

Amaya can’t stop thinking about the fact that she died. 

She doesn’t know what happened in that alternate future - doesn’t think she ever wants to know - but she knows enough. She knows that her death happened, and she knows that Sara Lance risked the integrity of time itself to go back and prevent it. 

There’s a knock on the door to her bunk. 

“I’m here,” Amaya calls out, sitting up. 

She hears the gentle thump of a hand on the entry key, the hiss of the door, sees Sara standing in the doorway. She’s wearing the same outfit as before: black jeans and a shirt, and even from here Amaya can smell the acidic bite of the gunpowder of the Somme. 

Sara never was one for taking her own advice. 

“Hey,” Sara says. The door slides shut behind her, and she leans against it, hands crossed in front of herself. 

“Hey,” Amaya says, sitting up. 

She watches as Sara takes her in, notices her sleepwear. She balks, visibly self-conscious, and Amaya’s a little far away to know for sure, but it almost looks like Sara’s blushing. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, if you’re - you should probably be sleeping.” 

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m not really tired,” she says. It was the truth before, but now that Sara’s in her bunk, it has new meaning. Her body feels like it’s waking up, eager for a task to burn off the excess adrenaline, and she’s acutely aware of all of the ways that Sara can help her with that. 

“Oh,” Sara says. “Good.” There’s a long silence, then: “I like your, um. Your outfit.” 

Now it’s Amaya’s turn to feel self-conscious. She doesn’t think anyone on the crew has seen her in her pyjamas - not even Nathaniel - and it makes her feel oddly exposed. They’re old fashioned, a satin jacket & trousers, one of the first things she asked Gideon to fabricate for her. As much as Amaya’s enjoyed adopting modern fashions, she appreciates the familiarity of clothing from her own time. “Thanks,” she says, plucking at the side of her trousers. 

Sara’s eyes turn toward the ceiling, and she takes a breath. “Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were alright. After -“ 

“- dying, but not really dying?” Amaya supplies. 

“Yeah,” Sara says. “That.” 

Amaya has spent years tempering instinct with logic and rules. She knows the value of strategy, knows the value of patience and evidence-gathering in the face of emotion. The evidence available is this: she knows that she died. She knows that Sara risked everything - far more than she should have - to prevent it. She knows that Sara’s standing in her bunk right now, trying desperately not to look at her.

She knows that her own heart is doing something strange, her blood humming in answer to a question that she’s not sure Sara knows she’s asking. She stands up. 

“I’m alright,” Amaya says. “Thanks to you, I suppose.” 

Sara nods. “Good.” Amaya smiles, and Sara takes a step closer. “I’d hate to lose my best warrior.”

Amaya whispers Sara’s name, but it’s drowned out by the sound of Sara whispering, “Fuck it.” 

They crash together in unison. Sara tugs Amaya into an embrace, burying her face in the curve of Amaya’s neck, nuzzling into her skin. Amaya hears her inhale, feels the warmth of Sara’s breath against her skin and tries not to think about how it makes her shiver, how it sends sparks that dance along her skin and settle somewhere much lower. She threads her hands into Sara’s hair and holds her, keeps her near. 

Sara keeps her held close, arms tight around Amaya’s back, for as many breaths as she needs. There’s a soft hitch in the rhythm of her breathing, and for a moment, Amaya wonders if she feels the humidity of Sara’s breath on her skin or something else, something like tears. She doesn’t have long to think it before Sara starts to kiss her throat, and then she doesn’t think of much except _that._

Sara’s lips are sure and soft and she takes her time, presses soft, suckling kisses to Amaya’s neck from her collarbone and up to her pulse point, behind her ear. It turns Amaya liquid, and suddenly she’s forgotten about everything except the feel of Sara’s mouth and the things it’s doing to her own body. Sara’s tongue skates across the shell of Amaya’s ear and then she exhales, sending a thrill of pleasure across Amaya’s skin and earning an answering feeling between Amaya’s legs. 

Amaya sighs, flexes her fingers against Sara’s scalp. Sara takes the opportunity to pull back and look at her. She’s watching Amaya’s face with interest, reading the situation. But there’s a softness to her eyes that hasn’t been there before, as though Sara sees Amaya as something precious. As if Sara wants to look at her for a good, long while. 

Her mouth is perilously close to Sara’s, breathing her air. They don’t kiss. They never kiss; this is _release_ , something beyond emotion. But it’s a near thing right now, Sara’s mouth hovering near enough that Amaya can almost feel her, phantom touch and warm breath mixing with her own. They linger together, neither wanting to move nearer or farther away. It’s a moment that lasts longer than it should; longer than it might have before Amaya died in another timeline. 

Amaya is the one to break it. She tugs at the hem of Sara’s shirt, and Sara responds with a shake of her head, a snap back to reality. She takes the hint eagerly, beginning to undress. Amaya’s brain registers a flash of skin, the sight of Sara’s sports bra, before she’s unbuttoning her own jacket and shimmying out of her pyjamas. She wants to match Sara’s nakedness, wants to feel Sara’s skin against her own, in a way that’s closer to a need than desire. She needs to touch Sara, feel all of her, because Sara saved her life and somehow that seems relevant. 

Sara is beautiful, even half-dressed, even when her jeans get stuck around her ankles and she has to bend down and ease her way out of them. Amaya watches, wanting to take all of her in. She wants to appreciate this. Their encounters are, most often, strategic fumblings: as much nakedness as is strictly required and little more. To have Sara undressed in front of her is another little luxury. 

Amaya’s eyes grow focused, drawn to the lines of Sara’s hips, to the blonde curls at the apex of her thighs. She wants that part of Sara’s anatomy in particular, above all the others, with a desire that shouldn’t be examined too closely.

(It’s not unconnected to the fact that this is Sara, that they’re both real and alive and here in Amaya’s bunk. That they survived something, just now, and they survived it together.)

Amaya steps forward, into Sara’s personal space. She’s thinking about skin, about how nice it will feel to touch Sara, so focused that that she half-forgets about the fact that Sara’s able to touch her in return - at least until Sara pulls her close and arches against her body, catlike. It’s so much to experience at once. Sara’s skin is warm all over, and she’s pressed against Amaya from head to toe. Amaya can feel the softness of her breasts, lets herself appreciate how they fit so nicely against Amaya’s own, soft-on-soft. She can feel the edges of Sara’s hips, firm muscle and the jut of her hipbones hard against Amaya’s palms. She also feels the heat of Sara’s cunt against her thigh, soft hair tickling her skin. The most difficult part is choosing what to touch first. 

She lets her head fall to Sara’s shoulder, kisses the skin where her collarbone meets her arm. Her hands slide from Sara’s hips to her back, and she makes a point of holding Sara close with both of them, arching into her body. She doesn’t feel possessive - that’s not a thing that Amaya feels - but she does feel an urge to mark Sara just a little bit; satisfies it by suckling harder at Sara’s skin, dragging her nails down the length of Sara’s spine. 

Sara groans, hips jerking forward. She whispers, “ _Fuck_ ,” against Amaya’s skin. 

Amaya’s not sure she’s ever heard anything so inviting. 

She allows herself to hold Sara for few moments more. Sara is a study in contrasts: hard and soft, sweet and salt, and Amaya is perfectly capable of appreciating the beauty of that without giving in to sentiment. 

She presses one final kiss to Sara’s shoulder before stepping away and shoving her, gently. Her eyes draw a path from Sara’s body toward the bed, a suggestion that’s not difficult to interpret. Sara catches on immediately, clambers onto the bed with hooded eyes and a crooked smile that’s directed somewhere between Amaya’s neck and her hips. She allows Amaya to join her, to press her onto her back. 

Sara’s skin tastes like warm salt, like reality, like something Amaya could taste forever. She allows herself to take her time with it. She kisses across Sara’s breasts as though she’ll be able to linger for hours, testing the weight of them against her palms and then her mouth. Sara has a weak spot here, a particular place on the underside of her breasts that makes her arch into Amaya’s touch. It drags a breathy sound from Sara’s throat, high-pitched and feminine in a way that Sara usually isn’t. She makes a point of lingering there, dragging tongue and teeth across the skin until it’s marked pink and Sara is wriggling underneath her, hips searching for contact. 

Sara’s breasts are lovely, but Amaya can’t stop thinking about Sara’s cunt. She wants to taste it, so much that her mouth is practically watering at the thought. She wants to make Sara feel _good_ , the way she’s made Amaya feel before, and this may be something new to her but she’s determined to be a quick study. Slowly, she kisses her way down Sara’s body, tongue and mouth skating over soft skin and firm muscle, until she reaches her pelvis. 

She pauses there, hovers just long enough for Sara to notice. “Hey,” Sara whispers, stroking the top of Amaya’s head. “Hey, you don’t have to-“ 

Her voice says that Amaya doesn’t have to, but her arousal is evident in the air, in the breathy hitch to her words, in the way her chest is flushed pink and all marked up from Amaya’s mouth. “It’s okay,” Amaya says. She gets bold, presses a kiss to the firmest part of Sara’s hips, right at the apex of her cunt. 

Sara hums out a moan, and her eyelids flutter for a moment. It only makes Amaya feel bolder. “I just,” Sara starts, breathlessly, before finding control of her voice. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re doing anything you don’t want to.” 

Amaya laughs. “Trust me, Captain. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.” 

It’s overconfident, a little theatrical on her part, but it does the trick. Sara laughs at Amaya’s brashness, but she also relaxes, lets her upper body sink into the mattress. 

Amaya kisses the top of Sara’s cunt again, pressing her mouth down against soft hair and warm, softer flesh with more force, adding pressure overtop of the spot she assumes is hiding Sara’s clitoris. She’s rewarded with a shout, and hands that fly to the top of her head for the briefest moment before fisting into the sheets. It’s certainly encouraging, and it gives Amaya the assurance she needs to nuzzle her way inside, past Sara’s lips to velvet-soft slickness. 

Amaya breathe deeply, marvelling at the way that she can smell as well as taste, musk and arousal filling her senses. She wriggles her tongue forward, slips higher until she finds firmness, something she’s half-sure is Sara’s clit. She’s rewarded with a whine, and a shudder that starts at the tip of Amaya’s tongue and moves upward, sets Sara’s whole body moving. Being this close to Sara feels deeply intimate, having permission to learn every inch of her, and explore. 

She dips her mouth lower, nuzzles and laps her way toward the mattress and suddenly her chin is resting at Sara’s entrance and _wet._ Sara’s slick there, wetness heavy and thick on Amaya’s tongue and there’s so _much_ of it, all for her. She sets herself to exploring, licking every inch of Sara, noting the places that make her cry out, and the places that don’t. 

By the time she settles on Sara’s clitoris, Sara’s breath is ragged and she’s whimpering out these soft, high-pitched sounds with every touch, every movement of Amaya’s mouth. It’s something to behold. Amaya’s happy where she is, in between Sara’s thighs, but part of her wishes that she could see as well as hear. Sara sounds undone, almost desperate, and Amaya doesn’t think she’s ever felt quite so powerful. 

She flicks her tongue upward, traces circles around firm flesh. Every time she does, Sara’s whimpers turn to shouts, so loud that Amaya’s sure the rest of the ship can hear. 

She doesn’t care. She’s managed to get _Captain Sara Lance_ worked into a state using only her mouth, and that’s all that matters. Every moan she makes is setting off an answering twitch from between Amaya’s own thighs, until Amaya begins to feel _invested_ in making Sara come. Gradually, Sara’s sighs increase in pitch, and one of her hands moves to the back of Amaya’s head, urging her on. Her hands are restless, alternating between digging sharp nails into Amaya’s scalp and cradling the back of her head, as though she’s trying to keep herself from being too rough. 

As though Amaya needs to be protected. 

Amaya uses her tongue in earnest, licking in swift, eager strokes until Sara’s whole upper body arches off the bed and she shouts a curse into the air, before collapsing back onto the sheets and shuddering against Amaya’s mouth. Amaya licks her through it, keeps going until Sara’s hands urge her away, until the last gentle shudders turn to sighs and the sound of Sara catching her breath. 

She rests her head on Sara’s thigh and stares. Takes in the rise and fall of Sara’s chest, the remnants of tension in her abdomen as she slowly stops shuddering, the glistening-wet of her cunt. She waits until Sara is present enough to mumble, “Come here.” 

Amaya obliges. She makes it halfway up the bed before Sara’s hand is at her nape, and it takes her a beat too long to think about what it means that Sara’s urging her mouth downward. 

Their first kiss is breathless; Sara still half-dazed from orgasm and grinning into Amaya’s mouth. Their lips make contact and Amaya feels it in her chest, heart fluttering until she feels like she’s run a marathon. Her mouth is still wet, covered in Sara’s slickness, and by the time they break apart they’re both slippery, arousal mixed with the taste of Sara’s lips. 

Sara’s smile is lopsided, closer to a smirk, as they part. Amaya’s fingers fly up to her mouth, on what sort of instinct she’s not sure, but it makes her realize that she’s smiling, too. 

“You’re not terrible at that,” Sara drawls. It’s a taunt, making light of this; the fact that kissing brings this into a different sort of territory. Amaya appreciates it. 

All Amaya wants to think about is Sara’s taste on her tongue and the slow throb between her own thighs. But now she’s also thinking about Sara’s mouth, about the way it felt to be _kissed_ , and the fact that the fluttering behind her own ribs has very little to do with arousal. “Of course not,” she says. “You didn’t think you were the only one who could figure out how to please a woman?”

Her tone is harsh and overconfident. Sara chuckles as though it was exactly the right thing to say. 

Sara tilts her chin, angling it toward Amaya’s mouth. Their second kiss is more sure, Sara’s mouth exploratory. Amaya allows it, parts her lips to lap at Sara’s tongue. There’s more to the kiss, she’s sure, but Amaya is suddenly distracted by a jolt between her legs: Sara’s hand, cupping Amaya’s cunt with her palm. 

She groans with pleasure, the sound flowing right into Sara’s mouth. Sara laughs back, and Amaya hears it but she also feels it against her lips, delicious. Sara pulls away just far enough to whisper, “You got some energy to burn?”

Amaya rolls her eyes. She doesn’t know what gives Sara the right to think she can be this cocky, but Amaya certainly plans to match it. “Just a little,” Amaya replies, canting her hips just so. 

She’s rewarded with a tilt of Sara’s wrist, fingers sliding up against Amaya’s cunt, exploring her wetness. Sara’s near enough that Amaya can hear her gasp at the feel of it, soft and surprised. She can’t quite suppress the thrill of pride that gives her. 

“Just a little,” Sara echoes. 

Her fingertips find Amaya’s clit and it’s _wonderful_ , a burst of sensation that throws Amaya off balance. She slumps forward, landing with her forearms on either side of Sara’s head.

Sara grins up at her, leans up to tear at Amaya’s mouth. Amaya lets her. She sighs into Sara’s mouth as Sara puts more pressure on her clit, moving her fingertips just so. Sara lets sensation build, until Amaya’s acutely aware of her inner walls, feels the first stirrings of her own climax between her legs. They’re hardly kissing, now; Amaya’s too far gone to do much but pant against Sara’s mouth. 

Amaya hears herself sigh, feels herself right on the edge of something, before Sara’s fingers disappear from her clit and slide further back to slip into her. She feels every part of Sara’s touch, sensation blooming in her cunt as Sara fills her. Amaya cries out, hips rocking instinctively to bury Sara’s fingers to the knuckle, clenching tight around them. Her inner walls flutter, very nearly enough to bring her over the edge, and she stutters, “ _Damn._ ”

Sara pecks at Amaya’s lower lip, whispers, “Sorry, I need you to speak up.” 

“You’re goading me,” Amaya hisses. She’s fucking herself on Sara’s hand, rocking her hips up and then sinking down, grinding the base of her cunt into Sara’s knuckles. 

“Is it working?” Sara asks. Her voice is low, half-threatening, and they both feel Amaya’s cunt twitch in reply. 

“Shut up,” Amaya hisses, increasing her pace. 

Her orgasm catches her off guard, somehow. She’s focused on the pace of her own hips, on being irritated with Sara’s beautiful mouth and the fact that she’s provoking Amaya and it’s _working._ The friction of Sara’s fingers inside her feels as if it’s in the background, until, suddenly, it’s _not_. Sara’s fingers angle forward the slightest bit, and then Amaya’s shuddering, her focus narrowed to the space between Sara’s hand and her skin, the feel of Sara inside her. She clenches tight, allowing herself to ride out every last moment of pleasure. 

She comes back to herself slowly. It takes her a few moments to recognize the fluttering feelings across her forehead, her cheeks, and a few moments longer to register them as the feel of Sara’s mouth. It’s not unwelcome, but it is unfamiliar; demonstrating a tenderness that Amaya hadn’t expected. 

Amaya eases herself down, pausing briefly as Sara’s fingers slide out of her. They curl together on the bed, Amaya’s head resting on Sara’s chest. They’re both overheated, sweat-damp from exertion. Sara’s hand comes up to rest on her shoulder, wet fingertips against her skin. Amaya’s sure they’ll both need another shower. 

Sara’s heartbeat is a steady thump under her ear. Now that her body is fully worn out, Amaya’s mind has started to slow down, and the exhaustion of the battle, the Spear, _all of it_ , begins to hit her in waves. Resting against Sara is something that feels easy. Slowly, a thought begins to coalesce: that Sara’s body against her own is something that she could grow used to, in another sort of life. 

In this life, the team will take the League back to their original times, and after that, Amaya will return to her own. That’s how things have to be. 

“You know,” she says tiredly, fingertips tracing spirals across Sara’s skin. “I’ll miss this.” 

Sara’s arm is around her shoulders, and Amaya feels her fingers flex, pulling her closer. “What do you mean?”

Amaya shrugs. “When I’m back in my time. They don’t make women like you in 1942.”

There’s a pause. Sara’s thumb begins to stroke at Amaya’s shoulder, thoughtfully. “I didn’t know you wanted to go back,” Sara says, soft as anything. 

Amaya shrugs. “I thought I’d have to. Weren’t you the one who said I was only supposed to stay until we caught Rex’s killer?”

Sara’s quiet for a long while. Long enough that Amaya starts to feel tendrils of worry creeping into her thoughts. Perhaps she said the wrong thing. “Well, if you want to get back -“ Sara begins, voice too neutral, too controlled.

“I didn’t say that,” Amaya replies. “I - I think I have to go back, eventually. But that doesn’t mean that I’m ready for it to be right now.”

Sara hums her acknowledgement. “Well, whatever you want,” she says. Her voice is gruff, but as she speaks, she presses her nose against the top of Amaya’s head. 

“Alright, then,” Amaya says. 

“So, you’re staying?” Sara murmurs against her hair. 

Now it’s Amaya’s turn to be quiet. This - whatever this is with Sara - isn’t anything significant, doesn’t have to be anything more than casual. But the bigger _this_ \- time travel, the Waverider, the team - is starting to feel a little like home. Perhaps there’s a version of her life where her destiny can wait a little while. “For now,” she says. 

“Okay,” Sara replies. Which is as it should be. She’s the captain; whether Amaya stays or leaves will affect her team, so it’s important that she know. 

She’s also the person resting underneath Amaya, one strong arm across her shoulders, the other rubbing her back. It warrants examination, perhaps a discussion. But for now, Amaya is content to let her exhaustion take over. 

From the slow, even sound of Sara’s breathing, it seems like she’s willing to do the same.


End file.
